


power trip

by disorderedorder



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Bloodplay, College AU, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, F/M, Modern AU, Patrick is still a warning on his own, Period play, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 23:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14123079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/pseuds/disorderedorder
Summary: she only love me 'cause I'm dangerous





	power trip

**Author's Note:**

> wassup I still wasn't invited to this party but my villain boner is too strong for him alright
> 
> also to clarify for anything else I do with him and this fic and my previous one, Patrick is like 22 and the reader is like 19-20 aight

There had been no interlude of time between your first real interaction with Patrick and becoming his sole friend with benefits, something that hadn’t failed to throw you for a massive loop. It was a little jarring to go from almost never seeing him to seeing him all the time when you were at home, and while he sometimes busied himself with keeping on top of client orders, more of his time was spent getting in your space. Something you learned quickly was that he was a very hands-on kind of guy, and rarely was there a moment when the two of you were in the same room that he  _ didn’t  _ have his hands on you. His favorite thing to do was wrap his arms around you and lean, resting his chin on your head and asking you over and over what you were doing. This usually happened when you made dinner, something that he was now home for almost every night, since you always stayed in for dinner. 

 

He spared no bites on you, however, or bruising kisses, or grips tight enough to leave marks in the shape of his hands on your skin, from your neck all the way down to your hips. His favorite place to mark up was your collarbone and neck, mostly because you had issues hiding the marks he left there. Usually, if he noticed marks fading, he would bite at you again, scraping his teeth over you hard enough until the marks were covered with new scrapes. Sex had become a twice-daily thing between the two of you, sometimes more, depending on what sort of mood he was in or what kind of day he’d had. Bad days meant three times, normal days were twice, and there was the incredibly rare day when all he wanted was you riding him when he woke up. Those days were few and far between, and usually were days when he actually made an effort to go to class, even if it was only to turn in a paper or an assignment he didn’t have someone else turn in for him. 

 

On the outside, it didn’t appear to be him taking what he wanted all the time from you, especially not when you brought the twice-daily oral he gave you into the picture, but you knew better than anyone else that even if he was the one giving, it was all about control. Everything he did, whether sexual or not, was all about keeping him at the focal point and making sure he got what he wanted first, and then the recipient got what they’d come for. It was a pattern, you noticed, even with his clients, since he required their payment up front  _ before  _ they got what he was giving. You knew that if it were anyone else, that sort of thing wouldn’t slide, but Patrick being the type of person he was, could get away with it. Both his former and current reputations made him a force to be reckoned with both on and off campus, with both adults and college students alike. He was more than a little scary in that way, but you knew as well as anyone else that being on his good side meant you were free from ending up on his blacklist. 

 

The thing about the relationship you had with him was that it sometimes felt a little more than just being friends with benefits, and maybe that was because you lived together, but some parts still felt like something _more_ , even with that factored in. It wasn’t something you dared to mention to him, especially since he had a tendency to get aggressive and sometimes shut down when you brought up his previous hookups. You learned quickly to stay away from that topic, or else it meant he was bringing out the knife and tying you to his bed for the night. Still, it didn’t stop you from wondering, even if you knew you couldn’t ask, which left you to assume all on your own. Patrick was secretive in a lot of ways, but open about things you wouldn’t expect him to be, and you didn’t pester him for answers you knew he wouldn’t give. 

 

In all honesty, your roommate was full of surprises, but the biggest one had to be how  _ nice  _ he was when he wanted to be. Of course, it was in his own way, as were all things that Patrick did, but they came in the form of throwing in a huge roll of cash for grocery shopping or alcohol or even offers to drop you off at class on his motorcycle on his way to meet his clients. None of the gestures failed to surprise you each time, but you were grateful for what he was willing to give. It made you feel special, in a strange sort of way, that the notorious bad boy on campus was willing to go another mile for you in a handful of ways. You really didn’t count the sex, mostly for the fact that it was all selfish, more taking than giving, but you did like the attention.

 

Amongst all the kinks he did have, one of the ones that struck you as the most odd was his penchant for seeing you wearing his clothes, whether it be his shirts, his jackets, or even his jeans, even if you were left rolling them four or five times to fit your smaller frame. Sometimes, he didn’t let you leave the house until he had you decked out fully in an entire set of his clothes, barring your shoes. This, of course, had people constantly asking you what you and Patrick ‘were,’ and if he was finally dating someone. You always told them no, you weren’t, but you knew just as well as anyone else how it looked, and especially when he pulled up outside your building on his way home to pick you up. The rumors ranged from outlandish to a bit insulting to completely degrading, but you learned to develop a thick skin for it, since that’s what Patrick seemed to do. You knew that he couldn’t care less about what people thought of the two of you, both on-campus and off. 

 

If anything, the rumors only fueled his amusement, and he started dialing his attention to you all the way up past ten, going as far as walking around with you on campus on your breaks between classes with his arm draped across your shoulders, his hand just close enough to your neck to brush his fingers across the marks he left there, as though he was reminding everyone just  _ who _ you belonged to. You were surprised that he hadn’t gone as far as wrapping his hand around your neck before, especially when the nasty comments were directed at him, but usually, whatever anger or frustration that stemmed from that was taken out on you later in bed. Gentle wasn’t in his vocabulary, unless he was in a particularly good mood, which was extremely rare, and usually unnerved you more than it made you feel secure. There was an odd balance to him, where he would take and take and take to the point where it should have made you angry, but he gave enough back that you couldn’t hate him.

 

There was one thing that gave you a sliver of control over him, and that was your period, usually because if you mentioned it, he would do small errands if you asked nicely. It wasn’t everything, of course, but he wasn’t turning you down to run to the store for a box of tampons if you asked him, and promised oral later. Most days of your period were spent curled up in your bed or on the couch, sometimes with your head in his lap, though that usually turned into giving him oral until he was overwhelmed. Sometimes, afterward, he would talk to you, petting your hair until you dozed off, and you normally woke up in his unmade bed, with a text from him saying he’d be back later. He never put you in your own room, not unless you asked, and even then you sometimes woke up in his bed anyway. 

 

Today, being the second day of your period, was just like it always went, with you curled up at home, waiting for Patrick to come home with food. Before he’d left, he’d put you in his bed, saying he’d try not to wake you up when he came home, but he didn’t make any promises. You’re dozing, if anything, comfy between the covers of his bed. His room is smaller than yours, and it looks even smaller with all the laundry on the floor, tangled with shoes and the odd school textbook. Every drawer is open, and his dresser is a mess of bags and containers that would make the DEA faint. His entire room smells strongly of weed, not because he smokes it, but because he sells  _ so much  _ of it. His own personal stash of coke and heroin is stashed under his bed somewhere. He doesn’t use often, but when he does, you know it’s because he’s had a long day, using coke to speed up and heroin to slow down. He’s not addicted to either, and he’s careful to not use too much, but you’re no stranger to seeing it out. 

 

Like always, his bed is unmade, half the pillows on the floor and the blankets hanging halfway off the bed, the sheets bunched at the foot. He keeps the blankets for your benefit, since he’s almost always too hot when he sleeps, but you sleep with him enough that making you carry them from your room to his would be ridiculous. His sheets smell like spicy deodorant, a hint of your perfume, and the unmistakable smell of sex, which never seems to dissipate, no matter how much you wash the sheets. It’s a combined scent that’s uniquely  _ Patrick _ , and as repulsive as it probably seems, you don’t have the energy or the urge to get up to try and fix it. Instead, you burrow deeper under the covers, pulling them almost completely over your head. You can feel the cramps returning, despite the long-lasting Midol you took about four hours ago, and you groan, wishing that you could be one of the lucky ones who only had to suffer through a three-day period instead of five. 

 

The slam of the front door hitting the wall behind it makes you jump, but as soon as you hear the heavy bootsteps, you know it’s just Patrick, having come home from whatever client he’s been meeting with. The rustling of bags means he’s swung by the store to pick up god knows what, probably alcohol, if you’re guessing. You sigh and roll over in bed, knowing he’ll be in in a matter of moments to greet you properly, which usually includes a sloppy kiss and groping at you for a solid two minutes before he actually says hello. 

 

As predicted, his bedroom door swings open, and a moment later, you feel the bed dip behind you and a hand pressed at your stomach over the covers. You twist just enough for him to catch you in a kiss, licking at your lips, forcing his tongue into your mouth as he pulls you closer, hands everywhere as he growls lowly, grinding against you enough to make you whine. His hands are on your ass, squeezing tightly as you reach up to push his hair out of his face, one of your hands coming to rest on the back of his neck. Patrick bites you for that, but more of a nip than a real bite, and you feel him smirking as he kisses you. With one final lick to your lips, he pulls away, his lips puffy and wet from kissing you for so long. He picks a bag off the floor and tosses a box at you, which you just manage to catch. 

 

“This is what you wanted, right?” he asks as he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The box in question is not the brand of tampons you asked for, but they’re the proper size, so you just nod and pull the blankets around yourself again. 

 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Thanks, Trick.”    
  


Patrick makes a concerned noise, if mockingly, and you can hear the sound of his boots being kicked off, one and then the other, before he curls up behind you again, pulling your body against his. You whine in protest as he pulls the blankets off you, exposing you to the cool air of his room, his hands running over your thighs, your stomach, your chest, as he continues to make mock concerned noises. 

 

“Fuck off,” you mutter, pushing at him. “Can I sleep now?”   
  
“C’mon, Babygirl, wouldn’t you rather be having fun?” he asks as he nuzzles you, his long hair tickling your shoulder as he rests his chin in the crook of your neck. You squirm away as much as you can, but it serves little purpose when he pulls you back, more aggressive than need be.    
  
“Trick, please,” you beg, making another effort to push him off.    
  
“Hmmm, I don’t think so,” he replies, and despite your protests, he rolls you onto your back as he climbs off, pulling you towards the foot of the bed. You’re too tired and drowsy to fight back, and as you watch him, you blink away the blurriness in your eyes, running a hand through your hair as you try to get an idea of what he’s planning. 

 

He shrugs off his worn denim jacket, tossing it somewhere on the floor to join the rest of his clothes, before he pulls his shirt off, kicking it aside before he gets on his knees before you, pulling you forward by the backs of your knees. His hands are big enough to hold your legs comfortably in each, and as he runs his palms up your thighs, you shiver in anticipation. There’s no telling what he wants, not even when you think you’ve got a vague idea, and today puts you at even more of a disadvantage. Still, you figure trying to guess won’t do  _ too  _ much harm.

 

“Trick,” you say, your tone concerned. “If you’re wanting to do what I think you’re wanting...we’re going to make a mess.”    
  


“So?” he replies casually.    
  
“So, I don’t want to make a mess of your bed,” you reply.    
  
Patrick gets to his feet, rolling his eyes as he runs a hand through his already-messy hair. He’s annoyed, you can already tell, and the last thing you want to do is annoy him even more, since his annoyance usually translates into your inability to sit for the next three days. 

 

“Then tell me what the fuck you want,” he snaps. His tone makes you flinch, since you know he’s no stranger to disciplining you, and hesitantly, you offer your suggestion. 

 

“Bathroom, give me a minute to clean up,” you say. For a moment, you expect him to outright say no, but instead, he rolls his eyes, folds his arms across his chest, his way of telling you to do what you want. 

As quickly as you can in your post-nap haze, you push yourself up, off the bed, and hurry to your own bathroom, taking a minute to brush out your tangled hair, straighten your tank top, and as you glance down at your boyshorts, you sigh, knowing that if you don’t take care of it, Patrick will, and he won’t be nice about it. From outside your room, you hear his footsteps, and nervously, you shove your boyshorts down your thighs, hands shaking as you grab the string of your tampon, tossing it into the nearby trash can as you kick your boyshorts the rest of the way off.   
  
You’re still shaking a fair amount when you hear your bedroom door open, followed by your bathroom door swinging the rest of the way out. Patrick’s light eyes are almost completely eclipsed by his pupils as he looks you up and down. The same familiar, predatory smirk twists his lips into a pretty line, treating you to a flash of bright white teeth. His movements are lightning fast as he pushes you against the bathroom counter, the edge digging into your ass until he picks you up, setting you on the counter and making you thankful that they were so short. Before you, he sinks to his knees, pushing your legs apart as he scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

 

“ _ Trick _ ,” you whine, in the heat of the moment, momentarily forgetting his rule about his name during sex. He bites you  _ hard _ , enough to leave a nasty mark that you know will be chafing for the next week. 

 

“Nope,” he growls, and as he wraps his arms around your thighs, you grip the edge of the counter so hard that you knuckles turn white. 

 

“ _ Patrick, please _ ,” you beg, and it earns you a satisfied purr from him as he presses the flat of his tongue against you, the vibrations of his laughing going straight to your core.    
  
“God, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Fucking  _ bloody _ , I love it.” 

 

His tongue dips inside you once, twice, before he switches his attention to your clit, sucking hard and as hard as he dares, scraping his teeth over that, too. You yelp, your hands going right for his hair and pulling  _ hard  _ as he continues to eat you. You’re more sensitive than usual, every sensation feeling ten times more intense, each well-placed lick, every scrape of his teeth, every time his fingers tighten around your thighs. You pull at his hair harder, which only makes him growl more, his words muffled against your cunt. He looks up at you through layers of dark lashes, the look in his eyes possessive, predatory,  _ primal.  _ You’re getting a taste of what it must be like for him when you suck him off and he orders you to look at him when you do it, and you immediately understand the appeal of it all. 

 

“I should be doin’ this every fuckin’ day, shouldn’t I?” he asks, and when you don’t answer, he immediately pulls back, the entire lower half of his face bloody, from the tip of his nose to his chin. He grins, his tongue darting out to lick the blood off his lips.    
  
“Answer me, Babygirl, should I be doin’ this every day?” he demands, and you nod, winding your fingers through his hair and making a weak attempt to pull him back. 

 

“Nah, I don’t think so, this isn’t gonna go the way you want yet,” he laughs, amused at your desperation as he stands, one of his hands pulling at the fly of his jeans while the other rubs your clit, edging you closer to release but denying you the sensation to push you over the edge. You’re forced to let go of his hair, choosing instead to press your hands against his bare chest as he teases you, and as he steps between your legs, you can feel his cock at your entrance, hot and velvety. 

 

“Beg for it, Babygirl,” he purrs, leaning down to kiss you, the metallic taste of blood sharp on your tongue as he forces his tongue inside your mouth. “Fucking  _ beg me _ to fuck you the way you like.”

 

_ “Fucking please, please fuck me, Patrick, please,”  _ you whine, your voice breathless as you beg, and you’d be embarrassed if anyone but Patrick heard you. 

 

He doesn’t need further cues from you as he thrusts inside all at once, his hips meeting yours as he sets a hard, relentless pace, his hand still at your clit, rubbing you almost painfully, his other hand tangled in your hair, forcing you to look at him. Your hands are holding his wrists in an iron grip, your desperation to cum already stronger than anything else. 

 

“Are you gonna cum for me, Babygirl?” he taunts you as he feels you tighten around him. “Are you gonna be my good girl, are you gonna get me off, too?”   
  
Your attempt to lean forward and hide your flushed face in his chest is stopped quickly as he pulls your head back, his grip too strong on you to let you look away from him.    
  
_ “Answer me, slut,”  _ he snaps, his tone leaving no room to protest. 

 

“ _ Yes, I’ll be your good girl,  _ **_Daddy, please_ ** _ ,”  _ you gasp, and there’s a split second between the two of you when you realize what you’ve just called him. You’re shocked, mildly horrified at your slip, and even he looks a little surprised, though that doesn’t last long. Wordlessly, he thrusts harder, rougher, as he pinches your clit, sending you over the edge with a cold rush over your entire body as you cum. He finds his release moments later, his hips pressed tightly against yours, growling as he comes down from his orgasm. 

 

His dark hair is damp with sweat, hanging in his eyes, and you release his wrist so you can push his hair out of his face. He’s breathing hard, but you’re still trying to pull enough air into your lungs as you attempt to formulate an explanation for your slip. There’s a moment of silence, save for your breathing, before he speaks. 

 

“What’d you call me, Babygirl?” he asks, his voice having returned to its usual mocking, slightly condescending tone, albeit a little out of breath. He cocks his head, letting his hair fall back into his eyes as he allows you to lean forward, your face buried in the crook of his neck. You’re dead weight, you know, but you’re exhausted and overstimulated and too tired to really care. 

 

“I called you Daddy,” you whimper, almost inaudibly, but the scratch of his blunt nails across your back tells you that he’s heard it. 

 

“You’re fuckin’ adorable, Babygirl, thinking you can just break that rule,” he snarks. “But maybe you should try that more often...depending on my mood, I might just be a little more indulgent with you.” 

 

You pull back enough to study his expression, sure he’s kidding, trying to get you to believe him so he can spank you later, but nothing about his smirk indicates he’s joking. However, the blood around his mouth and his cock, as well as staining the bathroom counter and your own thighs, makes you sigh as you wonder how you’re going to clean it all up. 

 

“We need to clean this up,” you mutter, reaching for the hand towel, but he catches your hand in his, pinning it to the counter. 

 

“I think we should clean up first,” he purrs. “Shower, Babygirl, and don’t worry, I’ll come with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](http://supremeleaderdaddy.tumblr.com/), come yell w me about Patrick or whatever lmao


End file.
